


Demons

by hakufuku



Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Universe - Yakuza, Child Abuse, Domestic Violence, F/M, Familial Abuse, Gang Violence, Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Multi, Other, Past Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Physical Abuse, Shooting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-04
Updated: 2014-05-04
Packaged: 2018-01-21 23:18:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1567610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hakufuku/pseuds/hakufuku
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yakuza AU. Before Ichigo can become the next head of the Kurosaki Group, his father requires that he be married so that he can always have an ally on his side. At the end of his rope, Ichigo finally picks a young girl who's currently working as a maid for his father out of sympathy after he learns she was sold to his group by her parents. But as he slowly gets better acquainted with his new wife, he wonders if his sympathy-fueled decision gave him more than he bargained for.</p>
<p>There will be depictions of gang violence, references to abuse, and other possible depictions of violence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One-Way Sympathy

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first multi-chaptered fanfic I've ever made an attempt at, so please be patient with me!! I'll do my best to update about once per week. IchiHime is my Bleach OTP, and this is an idea I've had in mind for a few months. In fact, I only decided to make it into a fanfic project thanks to the support of my friends, so I wanted to give a special thanks to mak0chans, nephenie, scribbles-kun, ichinoue, veenasama, and ryukochans @ tumblr!
> 
> Please review if you can-- criticisms and encouragement about plotline, characterization, and even suggestions make me write faster! So without further ado, I hope you enjoy the first chapter of "Demons"!!

“Kukaku Shiba.”

“ _Who?_ ”

“She’s the heiress to the Shiba Corporation, a weapons manufacturing firm that also deals illegal merchandise on the black market. Her company is most known for its expertise in bomb-mak—“

“—Pass.”

“But—“

“— _Pass_ , Urahara. Gimme the next one.” 

“Right.” He murmured, shuffling through his stack of dossiers. As always, the young heir remained picky. “…Yoruichi Shihoin, current head of the Shihoin syndicate which trains the most highly-skilled covert ops mercenaries in the continent.”

“She’d be a ‘maybe’ if I didn’t see her shoving her tongue down her aide’s throat outside the men’s’ bathroom at the last gala.”

“Oh?” Urahara raised an eyebrow, a hint of a smirk ghosting his lips. “So that finally happened, eh? Soifon must be pleased.”

“ _Next._ ” Ichigo directed sharply. The older man stifled a chuckle, scratching his stubbly chin as he leafed through his papers.

“How about Rukia Kuchiki?”

“I am _not_ marrying Rukia.”

“But you both get along so well—“

“—I love her like no other, but she’s like my family.” Ichigo explained, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. Everyone on the outside of their relationship had always thought there was more going on between the two. And granted, he at times likened Rukia to so much as his soul mate, but that hardly meant he loved her that sense. She helped him through his problems, and he through hers. She was an indispensable friend and ally in his life, but that’s as far as it went. 

“Look, we’re reaching the bottom of the barrel here.” Urahara implored. Ichigo snorted, making a mental note to relay that message to Rukia. He could already picture it now: her tiny fist colliding with the courier’s smug face while she spit out a string of curses. The sound of the older man’s voice drew him out of his reverie, much to Ichigo’s disdain. “I don’t see any way around this. You _have_ to pick someone.”

Silence ensued, only broken by the dull sound of Ichigo drumming his fingers on the small table. These meetings had always gone on for forever. He and the older man would spend hours in the small meeting room, sitting across the table sipping tea, looking at photos, and trading monosyllabic conversation only to never arrive at an agreement.

“Why do I have to get married to begin with?” Ichigo grumbled impatiently, folding his arms atop the table before laying his head down.

“Public appearances, mostly.” Urahara offered, fully aware the question was intended to be rhetorical. “—Can’t have the heir to the Kurosaki syndicate just become the next head without a wife. You’re going to have a target painted on your back the second you step up to the plate, and it’d ease your father’s worries if you have someone to watch your back.”

Ichigo caught his lower lip between his teeth, knowing Urahara’s words carried truth in them. Leave it to the old man to guilt trip him by mentioning his family. 

When Ichigo gave no immediate reply, Urahara continued.

“Though certain members prefer that you marry into another well-established family, form a strong alliance y’know? But that’s not necessarily a requirement, especially since you’re so difficult.”

“What do you want me to do about it?” He demanded, his brow furrowing. “I don’t want some spitfire yakuza bride giving me a world of trouble. And I sure as hell don’t want some loose broad running around with every guy around town and giving me a bad rep.”

“I _do_ have a fourth candidate for today,” Urahara began hesitantly. Ichigo straightened in his seat, focusing on the older man sitting across the table from him. The corners of Urahara’s lips curled upwards with faint amusement as he tested the waters, pleased that he seemed to have the younger man’s attention. “Provided you’re interested, Kurosaki-sama.”

“Enough with the games, Urahara.” he growled, his patience thinning. He’d always hated when the older man referred to him so formally, even jokingly. It felt too stiff; almost suffocating. Ichigo drummed his fingers on the table again, a scowl present on his features.

The older man chuckled to himself, taking Ichigo’s irritation as an affirmative reply. From the inner lining of his robe, Urahara retrieved a yellow document envelope and slid it across the table. The courier’s behavior had piqued Ichigo’s interest, his brow cocking in spite of himself. Even if he was a shifty asshole, Urahara was a man who made good on gathering and providing information. With a grunt of annoyance, the heir snatched the envelope and roughly tore it open before turning it over to spill the contents on the table.

A thick stack of documents landed on the table with a dull thud, and Ichigo groaned internally as he eyed the papers.

“Orihime Inoue.” Urahara began methodically. “Twenty-one years of age. Up until she was thirteen, she lived with her older brother who happened to be a lower-level grunt of ours. He was killed in a shooting with a rival gang, and she was subsequently sent to live with her biological parents until now.”

Ichigo furrowed his brow, slightly confused by Urahara’s phrasing. He gave the older man a hard stare, silently urging him to continue his story. The courier tipped his hat low, casting a shadow over his eyes before continuing in a grim tone.

“…She was sold to us last month by her parents, as a means of lessening their outstanding debt to our group.”

“What the _fuck?!_ —“ Ichigo was on his feet at once, his hands fisted in the front of Urahara’s shirt as he dragged the older man halfway across the table. The courier put up both his hands, letting out a nervous laugh as he tried to make his innocence in the situation known. 

“It’s not what you thi—!!“

“So we deal in trading _people_ now?!” Ichigo snarled, abruptly tugging the man closer. Weaponry and information were what the Kurosaki Group specialized in manufacturing and overseas trading. Ichigo’s father, Isshin, had single-handedly established their group as the fifth highest grossing business conglomerate in the country and thus far, had managed to keep his hands clean of dirtier dealings like drugs and prostitution. Ichigo’s father had a tendency to be an overly-ambitious and downright batshit crazy son of a bitch, but the thought that he’d do something so stupid as to initiate dealing people as if they were commodities was enough to make the young heir’s blood boil.

“No, no—you misunderstand!”

“Then _make_ me understand.” He spat threateningly, his hands tightening their hold on Urahara’s coat. His skin stretched bone white over his knuckles; his breath grew ragged with rage. “ _Now_.”

“Your father gave the Inoues money in exchange for the daughter, that much is true.” Urahara started, before deciding to quicken his explanation when Ichigo’s murderous expression had yet to falter. “Under regular circumstances, he wouldn’t have, but believe me when I tell you that he did it as a kindness to the girl!”

“How in the _fuck_ is human trafficking considered a kindness, Urahara?” 

“When the ‘human trafficking’ in question entails giving her a job as part of your father’s personal maid detail in the main house and a roof over her head.” The courier explained. And the moment Ichigo’s expression began to relax, he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. The young master was quiet for a moment, presumably mulling over this new information in his mind. When he didn’t reply right away, Urahara decided to wrap up his explanation.

“And even though my career lies in disseminating information, the details aren’t really mine to divulge you with.” He murmured, gingerly prying Ichigo’s fingers from the front of his robe with each word that fell from his lips. Chancing a glance upward, he was met with a much less heated, though nonetheless annoyed stare. The courier cleared his throat. “—Okay look, you’re on a need-to-know basis. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Get _on_ with it, old man.” Ichigo grunted, his predatory stance unrelenting. And Urahara had thought that despite the boy’s disdain for his father’s profession, he certainly had the makings of a fine young yakuza.

“She was beaten.” He replied gravely. “Often and hard.”

Ichigo finally released his hold on Urahara, leaving the older man to slump back down into his seat on the floor. The heir kept his eyes hidden by lowering his head, but Urahara would have had to have been a fool not to notice the tension in his back; the way the younger man’s hands balled up into fists as he sunk back down in his seat.

It was a long while before either of them uttered a word, a tense silence falling between the two. Urahara eventually came to the decision that not much else would be accomplished during their meeting. With a heavy sigh of disappointment, he reached across the table to collect his documents. A strong hand gripping his wrist suddenly halted his movements, however, and Urahara glanced upwards in surprise. Ichigo was still avoiding making eye contact, and the courier could tell that the atmosphere was just as tense as it had been before the silence had been broken. 

“I pick her.” Ichigo muttered.

“Sorry?” Urahara did a double take, his wide eyes practically boring a hole into Ichigo’s slouched form.

“The last girl. Inoue. I’ll marry her.” When Urahara gave no immediate reply, Ichigo shot an irritated look upwards. “S’there some kind of problem?”

“–No, no!” The older man waved his hand, quickly dismissing Ichigo’s ire. “I’m just surprised you finally made a choice! –We’ve been at this for weeks now, and I’d nearly exhausted my resources. Here I’d thought I’d never be able to get you to come to some sort of agreement.”

Ichigo grunted in reply, signaling to Urahara that their meeting had come to a close.

“Right, well— I’ll leave you with this, then.” He nudged the stack of papers closer to the younger man before withdrawing his hand and reaching into the inner lining of his robe. He produced what appeared to be some sort of card at first glance, laying it atop the documents. Ichigo watched the courier with slight disdain as Urahara swiftly rose to his feet and made his way towards the door.

“I’ll inform your father of the decision—he’s sure to be pleased.”

“I don’t give a damn about what that old Goat Face thinks.”

“Of course, Kurosaki-sama.”

“And _quit_ callin’ me that—“

“As you wish, Kurosaki-sama.”

Urahara quickly ducked out the door, narrowly dodging the pillow Ichigo had launched at him in his irritation. A cheshire grin found its way to his lips, and he allowed himself a quiet chuckle as he made his way to the main house. _‘The makings of a fine young yakuza indeed, but he’s still like a child in so many ways. That temper of his is going to get him in trouble if he isn’t more careful.’_

Back in the meeting room, Ichigo had risen to his feet and was now collecting the myriad of pillows he’d thrown across the room. Urahara had always been a loyal member of the Kurosaki Group, and despite his previous shady dealings with rival gangs, he was a dependable person when you needed him to be. Even so, it didn’t stop the old man from being a complete pain in the ass when others were at his mercy.

Ichigo sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger; it was a habit of his whenever he felt a headache coming on. He’d spent his life growing up around irritating characters, but he’d be damned if he ever grew used to their difficult personalities.

He chanced a glance at the clock on the wall, mildly surprised to learn how late in the evening it was. It truly wasn’t an exaggeration when he complained about how long these meetings tended to drag on, but he dimly remembered that they would no longer be an intrusive annoyance in his life anymore. Despite the fact that his marriage to some unknown girl now loomed on the horizon, he took pleasure in the idea of not having to deal with Urahara on a tri-weekly basis any longer.

He was almost out the door, about to return to his own bedroom, before he remembered the stack of documents the courier had left for him on the table. Ichigo doubled back to grab them, but his attention was caught by the small card Urahara had left behind. He picked it up, his eyes scanning the neat script that read ‘Orihime Inoue, age 21’. Ichigo quirked an eyebrow before promptly flipping the card over to check for more information.

On the backside was printed the portrait of a young woman. She didn’t appear to be aware that her photo was being taken at the time, her attention trained on scrubbing the wood floors by hand. She donned the familiar maid uniform that was standard of the Kurosaki household, a light blue kimono. The first thing that caught Ichigo’s attention was the fiery auburn hue of her hair, pinned neatly to the top of her head in a bun. Shorter locks had fallen loose, framing her heart shaped face. Her eyes were large and chocolate brown, almost doe-like. And despite having never met the young woman, he could tell that the small frown she wore and furrowed brow looked almost as if they shouldn’t belong there.

“Orihime Inoue, hn?” He murmured as he appraised the woman in the photo. She was pretty, he could admit that much to himself; the type of pretty that got girls like her into trouble. He’d meant to avoid getting saddled with anyone who might potentially cause him a headache, and cursed himself for getting so worked up and allowing sympathy to make his decision for him. But in any case, she seemed like she was a hard worker. Probably the meek type that tended to stay out of people’s way. Those overly-shy girls were a pain in the ass for him to handle, but he supposed it was better than some high-strung know-it-all that’d give him hell every waking moment.

With a shrug, Ichigo pocketed the photo and made his way down the hall, quietly musing about his bride to be.


	2. Interlude I - "Happiness"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Interludes are going to be every few chapters (if not, then between every chapter), and are meant to be read so that you don't know who the speakers are (though tbh, it's kind of easy to figure out).

“Your eyes are so kind.”

“You’re talkin’ to the wrong type of guy, little missy.”

“Maybe so in the general scheme of things, but your eyes tell me that you’re a kind person.”

He snorted a laugh, his wise eyes crinkling in delight as he took a drag of his cigarette. He found himself having to look away from her, as if he shouldn’t dare to even glance at something so pure when he himself was dirty. Not that she wasn’t dirty to a certain degree herself, but there was a difference when it came to choosing and being forced into filth.

“It’s why I wasn’t afraid when you came for me.” She continued, a serene smile gracing her lips as she recalled the memory fondly. “I was sad at first… maybe even a little lonely… but I’ve been lonely since I was thirteen, so that wasn’t anything new. And I was afraid –at first– of your broad shoulders, and the way you towered so tall over me that you cast a shadow. Your voice was cold and authoritative, and it boomed with a kind of finality; like a gunshot. But I caught a glimpse of your eyes as my parents shoved me towards you, before I bowed my head in shame. And that’s when I knew that I was finally safe again.”

“Is that why you started crying?” The man mused quietly. “I’d assumed at the time you had just been afraid, but you’re tellin’ me now it was relief?”

A throaty laugh escaped his lips once more, and he leaned over to crush the stub of his cigarette in the car’s ashtray.

“No,” She corrected him gently, tucking a loose lock of hair neatly behind her ear. “It was happiness.”


End file.
